


For Paths Left Lone

by Kawaiibooker



Series: What Could Have Been [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt No Comfort, I'm serious y'all this shit's sad, Post-Game(s), Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-08
Updated: 2018-11-08
Packaged: 2019-08-20 15:34:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16558451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kawaiibooker/pseuds/Kawaiibooker
Summary: "The world is too cruel for blind faith but... maybe Arthur could use some guidance, wherever he is."Charles comes back for Arthur.





	For Paths Left Lone

**Author's Note:**

> Unbetaed.
> 
> Please heed the tags. You have been warned.
> 
> Spoilers for all of Chapter 6.

“Charles– Charles, wait!”

 _Paytah._ Shortening his reins, he glances over his shoulder, where most of Rains Fall's people – _his_ people – were scattered in small clusters over the mountain side.

Travelling up North, disappearing into the snow... Charles has done this all before. Catching the pinched look on Paytah's face, he can't help but wonder if they are already doomed, mere days into their escape.

Up ahead, Rains Fall leads on, back bowed with grief and age but not broken, never that.

Finally, Paytah has caught up to him. His young gelding is panting heavily, body hot enough to steam in the frigid air. “What is it?”, Charles asks in a low voice, hand reaching for his bow.

Wiping the sweat off his brow, Paytah points East, behind, and Charles' heart, beaten and tired as it is, still finds the strength to pound harder. “The scouts”, he says, swallowing once, hard. “Gunfire, they said. Men from the government–“

 _Shit._ “How much time do we–?”

“No, not– Charles. That camp of yours. Arthur is still there, isn't he?”

And suddenly the muted worry painted all over Paytah's expression makes sense. _Shit shit shit._ Charles looks past him, past the last members of their caravan, to the forests beyond and that pull in his chest that never quite went away.

_Arthur._

“I...”

Charles doesn't know how to finish that sentence, doesn't know where to _begin_. Torn, stretched thin between two halves of himself, Rains Fall ahead and Arthur behind and Charles in the middle, utterly lost.

“Go.” Paytah shakes his head, silencing the protest halfway out Charles' mouth. “ _Go._ Arthur... This isn't his fault, no matter what he thinks. Maybe it's not too late.”

Charles objects anyways, “He's a dying man, Paytah”, he says, weakly, because he has to: This is the opposite of what Arthur would want.

But Paytah's look doesn't waver, and neither does his voice.

“So was Eagle Flies.”

Charles pauses, nods, once, twice, with more conviction. “Yeah”, he rasps, the thick leather of his reins creaking between clenching fists.

“Yeah.”

*

Beaver Hollow is deserted by the time Charles gets there.

Staying in the shadows of the pines, he searches what remains of the camp with his eyes, the stench of blood strong enough to make his stomach turn. None of the dead bodies littering the area seems familiar – a small mercy, perhaps – but Charles doesn't waste time looking too closely, either.

The Van der Linde gang didn't make their last stand here.

Unsurprisingly, their trail is not very hard to follow. Charles pushes Taima past corpse after corpse, climbing ever higher up the barren slopes of the Roanoke, accompanied by the clinking of empty bullet shells against her hooves. “Christ”, he mumbles, seeing the sheer extent of the shootout that must've taken place.

_Where are you, Arthur?_

Suddenly, Taima raises her head, stock still. At the very top, a buck stands, head turned toward the disappearing sun as it expires over the horizon. Charles stares – and it stares back, big glinting eyes that pierce him to the very core.

Far away, a bird takes flight; the deer startles and runs, out of sight in a few graceful leaps.

“Wait here, girl”, Charles murmurs, as if raising his voice would break the unnatural stillness around them. The horse follows him only a few steps; soon enough, he is alone, hiking past boulders twice his size and careful not to slip on the loose gravel lining his way. The cliff face is impenetrable, at first. Only at a closer glance does it reveal its secrets: there, just shy of the near-vertical drop, is a ledge.

There's blood on its step, smeared across the rock. Charles' throat tightens and he swallows, blinking away tears. _Not his_ , he thinks, forces himself to believe _it's not his._ Arthur is a tough son of a bitch.

Always has been, always will be.

Charles leans over the cliff and maps out his descent. By the time his foot catches firm ground, his arms are trembling, panted breath visible. Charles shakes out his cramping hands, looking around himself to figure out the next step–

Mere meters away, a body. For an eternal moment, Charles stops breathing, just _stops_ , period.

He recognizes the blue jacket, of course he does. He recognizes the muddy boots, worn through their soles; the torn jeans, the– the ever-present black bandanna, and the soft brown of his hair, for once not covered by his signature hat.

Charles exhales shakily, “Oh, Arthur...”, moisture gathering and spilling down his cheeks.

The last steps seem endless; he grinds to a halt before him, kneels down, hand hovering, hesitating over Arthur's jaw before he brushes his tousled hair aside and presses against his pulse point.

Nothing.

Charles didn't expect anything else, yet it's that that breaks him, lungs unable to draw breath for an agonizing instant.

“I'm sorry.”

It's a whisper lost to the wind, but it's there, and Charles bows low, fingers shaking as more tears fall, gathering in the sockets of Arthur's vacant eyes. Automatically, he makes to wipe them away, the bunched fabric of his sleeve coming away crimson.

They beat him up, those animals. Put him down like a dog and left him to die alone. Death had been nipping at Arthur's heels for some time now, _far too long_ , and yet Charles gasps with the thought that he could've had more. Some days, at least – enough to take a long ride on that horse he loved so much, to get outrageously drunk just for the hell of it, to steal the most expensive cigar they could find and share it, side by side.

“I should've stayed”, Charles realizes, too choked up to make it past his lips. “You needed me, and I f-fucking left you.”

The silence is unbearable, the absence of that comforting drawl all the more marked. Gradually, night falls around them. In the distance, a wolf howls.

Charles remains by Arthur's side, back against unforgiving stone, watching the moon rise with wet-rimmed eyes.

*

Arthur Morgan is buried under a night sky endlessly filled with stars and not a single cloud in sight.

With a final touch to the wooden cross, Charles steps back, rubbing his aching hands over his cheeks to warm them from cold numbness.

_Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness._

In life, Arthur wasn't much of a religious man. But just as Charles doesn't believe in every tale his mother told him, he always keeps them in mind, hidden safe in the back of his mind, a guiding light in times of darkness.

The world is too cruel for blind faith but... maybe Arthur could use some guidance, wherever he is.

“Hope you found the answers you were looking for, brother.”

Charles sighs, nods, takes in the view one last time.

He turns to leave, never to be seen in these parts again.

**Author's Note:**

> I finished the game two days ago and this wouldn't let me rest until it's written. It's set outside of the somewhat canon-divergent frame of [Only Lost The Night](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16453688/chapters/38530367).
> 
> Arthur Morgan deserved better. Also fuck Micah.
> 
> [tumblr](https://kawaiibooker.tumblr.com) / [twitter](https://twitter.com/kawaiibooker)


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